


Unexpected Gifts

by anticyclone



Series: Radio Days [3]
Category: Good Omens (Radio), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gifts, Humor, M/M, Misprint Bibles, Radio Good Omens, Radio Omens, Vaguely medieval monastaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23911957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticyclone/pseuds/anticyclone
Summary: Visitors to the monastery are rare. Visitors for Aziraphale are doubly so. It's not quite a surprise that the 'visiting knight' is Crowley, but that Crowley brought a gift with him is a shock - especially as the gift is, of all things, a Bible.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Radio Days [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728460
Comments: 42
Kudos: 132





	Unexpected Gifts

"Do you like it, angel?" Crowley asked. He was sprawled on the ground at Aziraphale's feet. When Aziraphale looked down at him, he folded both arms on the end of the stone bench and smirked. The sun gleamed off his black hair and made his yellow eyes shade gold. He looked like a painting of a nobleman taking his leisure in a lush private garden.

Except Aziraphale wouldn't choose either 'noble' or 'man' to describe Crowley (at least not where Crowley could hear). They were, he had to admit, in a garden. Specifically they were in the courtyard garden of the abbey where Aziraphale had resided for the past couple of years.

"I do have access to quite a few Bibles nowadays," Aziraphale said.

Still. The script in this one was particularly well-done. He very carefully turned a page. Aziraphale had spent much of his time lately encouraging young monks to take more care with their handwriting than most humans were inclined to. It was important. Recently he'd come into the scriptorium to find pawprints across three - three! - of the manuscripts, and all the young monks huddled around the abbey's great big black cat. They'd been cleaning her paws and cooing.

There were no pawprints in the Bible that Crowley had, for some reason, brought him.

"Yesss," Crowley said, grinning when Aziraphale shot him a sharp look. "But this isn't for the monastery, Aziraphale. This is for you."

"It is lovely," Aziraphale reluctantly admitted. He was still suspicious. "I don't have much room for storing things though."

It wasn't any kind of holiday. He hadn't done Crowley any favors recently. They hadn't even seen each other in decades. And all of a sudden Crowley rides up to the monastery on a firey-eyed black horse (that rather looked like she wanted to buck him off her back) asking for a room while he rests his weary steed and catches up with his old dear friend Brother Alwyin?

The abbot, bless his soul, had bought Crowley's gallant knight act hook, line, and sinker. Crowley had cut a fine figure in his armor, it was true, but Aziraphale knew better. Crowley was more likely to be sabotaging tournaments than competing in them.

He'd stabled his horse himself. When he'd found Aziraphale again, sans shining armor, there'd been a trail of curious novices behind him. Eager to hear something from someone who'd known Brother Alwyin before he'd taken his vows. Less eager for Brother Alwyin to shoo them all back off to their afternoon duties. Crowley had very indulgently smiled at them all and said nothing about the way they stared at the unnecessarily close-fitting tunic that had been under all that metal.

Something was up, Aziraphale was sure of it.

"You'll keep it where you keep all those scrolls from the Library of Alexandria," Crowley told him.

Aziraphale sniffed. "The librarians were all gone, Crowley. Who was I supposed to give them back to?"

"Mmm hmm. Take a look at Genesis."

"I rather think I know what Genesis says," Aziraphale said, obediently turning to the front of the Bible anyway.

"You have your version of Genesis memorized, yes."

"My version-" Aziraphale stopped on the second page. He glowered at Crowley from the corner of his eye. "Crowley."

Crowley grinned again, wider than a human mouth should really stretch. "And the LORD," oh, Aziraphale could just hear the capital letters, "spake unto the angel that guarded the Eastern gate, saying," and here his voice dipped impossibly lower, in an annoying, booming fashion, " _'Where is the flaming sword that was given unto thee?'_ "

"I had these verses removed!"

"And the angel said," Crowley continued, ignoring him, " _'I had it here only a moment ago… I must have put it down somewhere, forget my own head next!'_ "

"I absolutely do not sound like that."

Crowley laughed. "You absolutely do. Come on, angel. You got those verses struck out so long ago. Thought you'd like yourself the last copy."

"Hmmph."

Crowley rested his chin on his folded arms. His black hair shifted over his forehead and he didn't bother to push it away. "I could take it back," he said. "Lots of long nights when you're on the road. Pages are good for kindling."

"You don't worry me," Aziraphale said, mentally planning to lock the Bible up as soon as he got the chance. Somewhere Crowley wouldn't think to look, or where it might be annoying to get to, like the abbot's private reading room or the little chapel the novices were in the middle of refurbishing. The place smelled constantly of freshly worked wood and unfettered holiness. Unlike the abbey's garden and public areas, it would make Crowley sneeze something terrible.

Speaking of novices…

"We're being watched, you know," Aziraphale said. He'd turned the page to find an illustration genuinely worth poring over and kept his eyes down as Crowley surreptitiously glanced at the entrance to the courtyard.

The novices must have thought they were being quite discreet. None of them dared to linger in the arched entryway, and none of them were speaking at any volume Aziraphale could detect, but it was obvious that few footsteps actually retreated all the way down the path after they passed. Aziraphale had been careful to mention a bland human history whenever anyone had asked about his past. Perhaps he'd been too bland. Humans were incessantly curious creatures, after all.

"Please," Crowley said, snorting. "Look at me. They think I'm your devoted bosom friend, separated from your company by both of our callings."

Aziraphale ran his thumb along the edge of the Bible. Since he'd been invited, he did take a moment to look.

Crowley had taken to his disguise. His black tunic and boots suggested a human who spent an absurd amount of money on clothing. But the boots did look broken in - perhaps he'd been walking alongside his horse, when there weren't humans around? And where his sleeves were rolled up, his arms looked strong, and the tunic itself was snug across his broad shoulders and, ah, yes. That was the effect Crowley was going for.

What Aziraphale said was, "The only thing you've ever been called to is sleep."

"Some of us can appreciate a good night's sleep."

"I enjoy having nights to myself," Aziraphale said. He carefully closed the Bible and set it down on his right. Then he reached down and gently cupped Crowley's chin in one hand.

Crowley's lips parted, just barely. He drew in a slow breath while Aziraphale tilted his face up.

Surely the novices were all watching. Aziraphale should really use this as a teaching opportunity. He could tell Crowley the monastery needed chores doing. Give him three flashy tasks, suited to the knight errant he was pretending to be. If he wanted that bed to sleep in, he'd have to at least playact at fulfilling them. Or Aziraphale could suggest that he lead the both of them in prayer. Crowley would offer blasphemous commentary underneath his breath the entire time, but the novices wouldn't be able to hear that, not from where they huddled in the passage outside the garden.

Instead, Aziraphale leaned down and chastely pressed his lips to Crowley's cheek.

"Thank you for the gift, my dear," he murmured. He let Crowley go and leaned back, clasping his hands together in his lap.

Crowley didn't move. His yellow eyes were fixed on Aziraphale's face.

"Now, are you going to tell me why you're pretending to be a knight, or do I have to find out myself?"

"Do I look like a demon who gives information to the enemy?"

Aziraphale blinked. "Yes?"

"Not for _free._ "

"If you think I have loads of Heavenly intel to share, Crowley, you'll find that you're mistaken." Aziraphale spread his hands. "I could go on about the state of penmanship in today's youth but I don't have any intriguing blessings on my plate."

Crowley put his chin back on his arms. "And I haven't got any temptations," he muttered. "It was 'stir up trouble' a decade ago, and I am not about to voluntarily put myself in front of the secretaries of Hell again."

For a moment Aziraphale simply watched him. Slumped over on the bench, his eyes drifting down from Aziraphale to wander around the courtyard plants, he looked less like an oil painting and more like a snake sunning itself on a stone. He reached down to run his hand through Crowley's hair, mussing it just enough to get an edge of irritation beneath the pleased rumble.

"If you're bored," Aziraphale said, "you could have just said so."

"Would you like to convince a bunch of villagers they're being plagued by a werewolf?" Crowley asked, hopefully.

"Not particularly, I'm afraid. Don't they have hellhounds for that kind of thing?"

"Short on hellhoundss, they said," Crowley grumbled. "I've staggered out of sso many treelines this summer I might as well keep a separate set of bloodied clothess. Do you know how many sympathetic milkmaids' and blacksmiths' arms I've died in ssince the start of summer?"

"You look very well for a demon who's made a pastime of expiring," Aziraphale said, and then bit the end of his tongue.

But if Crowley had noticed the _very,_ he decided not to tease Aziraphale for it. A miracle in and of itself. "Oh, these people. You know they can't half tell when a human's dead anyway. And it's not like I have to have a pulse."

"Hmm." Aziraphale patted his head one more time. "Blacksmiths, really?"

"I feel like I'm crushing the milkmaids. I always end up toppling over."

"You poor dear."

"Paranoia and distrust of your neighbor is up forty percent since I started, though. I could probably afford to take a break for a while and still maintain my numbers," Crowley said. And if Aziraphale somehow missed that plea for validation, he made sure to slump even more pathetically against the bench after he said it.

"I doubt you'll find the monastery more entertaining."

"Better than the Satanic nunnery down the way."

"What Satanic nunnery? I would have noticed a Satanic nunnery."

"You are more than welcome to go check it out for yourself."

"I'll pass." At least until someone told him he had to visit. Aziraphale rose to his feet, tucking the Bible under one arm so he could dust off the front of his robes. "Come on. I'll show to you your room. Don't worry, it's nowhere near anything holy."

Crowley slithered to his feet. From afar it must have looked like he simply stumbled and bumped his shoulder into Aziraphale's. No one else would have been able to see the way his hand settled on Aziraphale's backside. Or the way it squeezed.

" _Nothing_ holy?" he asked, pouting when Aziraphale glared up at him.

"You are well on your way to being bestowed a knightly quest," Aziraphale whispered. The back of his neck had grown hot.

He picked his chin up and sighed as they passed under the arched courtyard entryway and found a small crowd of novices leaning against walls, reading books, and sweeping the floor with the utmost casualness.

Aziraphale asked, "Well, what are you all up to? Don't you have chores to complete? Sir Ancel is very tired from his trip."

"Sir Ancel isn't that tired," Crowley said, with a near-beatific smile. It was the twitch of his lips that made it devilish.

"Perhaps Sir Ancel would like to help gather firewood," Aziraphale suggested.

"Sir Ancel is indeed that tired," Crowley corrected, immediately.

The novices laughed, but scattered, too. Nobody followed them through the corridors of the monastery to the wing where guests were housed. Guest rooms did have the advantage of having slightly more space, as it was expected that travellers would be carrying luggage with them. 

Aziraphale shut the door behind them. The Bible he sent to his own quarters. He did need to make one thing clear with Crowley.

"Now, my dear boy, I may be strict with our novices but that doesn't mean I am not fond of them."

"No seducing the novices, check," Crowley said, flinging himself down on the small bed. He stretched his arms out along the pillows and crossed his ankles. "Can't help if they're tempted to look, though. It's too late to change this body."

"Oh, I wasn't worried about any seduction."

Crowley propped himself up on his elbows. The look on his face was picture perfect. "Excuse me."

"I don't want you encouraging them to slothfulness."

"Gotten them trained just how you like," Crowley said, and fell back down. He reached up and locked his hands together behind his head. "Should I be jealous?"

"God's creation contains an infinite array of infinite possibilities, and I doubt there exists one in which I have you trained properly," Aziraphale said, dryly.

Crowley winked. "Maybe if you put your mind to it."

"I know a hopeless cause when I see one," Aziraphale replied.

"Hey!"

Aziraphale walked over to the bed and sat at Crowley's side. "If it's your current seasonal occupation that's boring you, I do think you located me rather quickly. How long have you known where I was?"

"Last spring," Crowley said, shrugging casually.

Interesting. "Took you long enough to drop by," he murmured. "The last time I looked for you all I got was some terrible … vulture demon."

"...Are you talking about Murmur?"

"Short, vulture familiar, regrettable taste in crowns?"

Yellow eyes flicked up and down. "Was this about fifty years back?" he asked, and upon receiving a nod of confirmation started laughing. It wasn't the brief, light laugh from the courtyard. This was Crowley's truly amused laugh. It came from surprise and delight and rumbled from deep within his chest, and Aziraphale was rather shocked to find exactly how much he'd … missed it.

He touched his hand to the side of Crowley's face.

Crowley turned and kissed the heel of Aziraphale's palm, almost reflexively. He was still laughing. "Aziraphale," he said, and no, Aziraphale couldn't fool himself into thinking for a moment that he hadn't missed Crowley saying his name that way. "He said he got into a dust-up with Michael. What did you do to him?"

"Nothing! I told him he wasn't who I was looking for at all and called a wind up to shoo him off."

Crowley's laugh got louder and deeper again. He kept laughing while Aziraphale threaded his hand through Crowley's hair. "Swept him right back to Hell, you did. I bet he hit a tree. And he tried to act like he got his wing broken by an Archangel - oh," he said, that last word against Aziraphale's lips.

"Crowley?"

"Yess?"

Aziraphale smiled. He had only leaned back from the kiss enough to speak, and his hair was brushing Crowley's. Crowley's eyes were huge and yellow-gold and his pupils had dilated. Aziraphale said, "I really do appreciate that you brought me a gift."

"I didn't do it to be nice," Crowley lied. Aziraphale could tell. Which was nice, too.

"I'd never accuse you of such a thing, my dear," Aziraphale said, kissing him again. "Now, let's see what we can do about keeping you from being bored enough to tempt my novices."

"If you insisst."

Aziraphale only paused long enough to gently wrap a miracle around the door. Anyone approaching would realize they had something to do elsewhere. Immediately.


End file.
